


The Beginning of Liberty

by anthean



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Knights, Canon Era, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthean/pseuds/anthean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After two years on errantry, Cosette returns to Eponine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beginning of Liberty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



> for withinadream27, who requested a Cosette/Eponine knight/lady AU!
> 
> I am...not sure when this is supposed to be set, alas. I hope you like it!

Cosette wakes at dawn. She lies still for a moment, taking in the familiar ceiling, the smell of Toussaint’s laundry soap rising faintly from the sheets, then shoves the blankets aside and gets out of bed. She’s always been an early riser, but today she couldn’t sleep in even if she’d wanted to. Someone is waiting for her, and she itches to be awake and moving.

The water in her basin is cool but not cold; she splashes her face quickly and wipes her hands on her nightdress to dry them. Cosette unties her hair ribbon and shakes out the braid she sleeps in, then brushes her hair until it falls in shining auburn waves down her back. She considers tying it back again, but decides to leave it. Though Eponine’s never said as much, Cosette knows she likes it loose.

Armor will just attract unwanted attention where she’s going, so she dresses for riding: leggings, a white linen shirt, and finally a leather jerkin stamped with her emblem. She buckles her sword to her hip and tucks a pair of riding gloves into the belt, to be put on later. 

The hall is dark when Cosette cracks her door open. Her father is usually also up with the dawn, when he sleeps at all, but Cosette can hear his snores even through his closed door. They’d ridden hard for several days before they’d reached Paris, and her father, though still hale and strong, is not a young man. She’ll let him sleep this morning; if he wakes before she returns, he’ll be able to guess where she’s gone.

Cosette picks up her boots and, holding them in one hand, tiptoes in her stocking feet down the stairs and though the quiet house, the wood floor creaking faintly as she passes. When she reaches the back door, she pauses to put on her boots, the steps outside into the slowly-waking garden.

The sun hasn’t risen high enough to light the garden directly. Dew still shimmers on the grass and on the cobwebs that skein the bushes, and the new leaves on the overgrown trees quiver in the light morning wind. The last time Cosette saw this garden it had been autumn, the bare branches scratching at the sky and the scent of rotting leaves and mushrooms rising from the ground. She had stomped through the garden with her head bowed, eyes teary and cloak catching on the dead leaves, and had not returned for two years.

Cosette breathes for a moment, then finds the overgrown path and crosses the garden, leaving dark tracks in the grass and collecting dew on her boots and leggings. The wet smell of crushed grass rises behind her. When she enters the small stable at the back of the garden her destrier Thistle is already awake, whickering and stamping to greet her, and she smiles, running a hand down his soft nose. Her palfrey would be a better choice for city riding, but Poppy is still half-asleep, and she likes the idea of riding a horse trained to kick in the skulls of enemies on this errand. Not that she expects to have to do any skull-kicking today, but it’s nice to have the option available.

Cosette saddles Thistle quickly and leads him out of the stable, pausing near the entrance where her shield hangs next to her father’s on the wall— _Bleu-celeste, a lark rousant Or, wings addorsed and elevated_ for her, and _Party per pale sable and vert, a nettle counterchanged_ for her father. She considers taking her shield, but decides she’d rather have her hands free. Papa would frown, but she has a sword and a warhorse. She’ll be fine.

The lane behind the house is empty. Somewhere to her right, a lark sings as it flies, too high to see against the dawn. Cosette strains to catch each pealing note, certain the appearance of her symbol must be a good omen, until the lark ascends too high for even its song to reach the earth. She closes the gate behind her and mounts. Thistle sets off at a walk, and after a few blocks she heels him into a trot. The city is waking around her, stirring and murmuring as the sun climbs the sky, and she gets more than a few curious looks from passers-by. Cosette smiles again as she imagines the picture she must present: a small lady knight on a chestnut warhorse, sword at her hip and hair streaming behind her in the early morning light.

She takes roads that lead to the edge of the city. Cobblestones give way to packed-dirt roads, and the ring of Thistle’s hooves turns to muffled thudding as he trots along. There are fewer people in this corner of the city, and even fewer who want to share the road with a knight and her horse, unarmored though she is. Cosette catches a few faces peering at her through curtains, and a small child ducking into the alley between two houses, but as she rides further out of the city even these brief appearances end. Soon she’s riding along a dirt lane edged by a low wall, a few ramshackle buildings half fallen down, and a few more trees, roots creeping into the road.

The lark’s whistling call comes again, and Cosette jerks upright in the saddle and reins Thistle to a halt. Human lips shaped that whistle, and Cosette looks around hopefully.

A few yards down the lane, where ivy has grown over the wall and begun to pull it down, something moves. A figure in a tattered skirt clambers over the wall and drops to the ground, and Cosette’s breath hitches. It’s Eponine.

Cosette hops down, pulling Thistle’s reins over his head so he won’t wander, and walks forward. She’d worked up a sweat as she rode, and she can feel it cold on the back of her neck now that she’s stopped. Her heart is pounding. “I thought I’d find you at Gorbeau house,” she says.

Eponine scratches her shoulder, then wraps her arms around herself and shivers. Her feet are bare and the neck of her chemise is torn. “You rode in late last night, but there’s not much gets past Gavroche,” Eponine says. “He tipped me off. I’m done with that hole, anyway, I tell you. Not a fire in winter, not a bite when you’re hungry, and father always quick with a slap. I missed you, my lark.” She steps forward and presses her mouth to Cosette’s, and Cosette sighs into the kiss as Eponine’s fingers thread through her hair, icy against Cosette’s scalp. Cosette wraps her arms around Eponine’s thin waist and tilts her head for a better angle, putting two years of labor and loneliness into the kiss and hoping Eponine understands how being apart from her had carved a hole in Cosette’s heart. She clutches Eponine closer, and Eponine breaks the kiss to tuck her face into Cosette’s neck.

“Oh, how nice this is!” Eponine breathes. “To have you home again. Here I was afraid you’d find some rich young lord and forget me.”

Cosette strokes her back. “Never. I’m home for good,” she says.

Eponine straightens and looks Cosette in the eye. “Your quest? Sir Tholomyes?”

“Dead on my lance,” Cosette says, and Eponine kisses her again.

“My brave knight,” Eponine says when they’re both breathless.

“My brave lady,” Cosette replies. “You were the one who stayed behind.”

Eponine takes a quick breath and looks over her shoulder. “All over now,” she says. “Look, your poor horse is tired of standing,” and sure enough Thistle is shifting his weight restlessly. Cosette pulls herself form Eponine’s arms, walks to her horse and strokes his nose to sooth him.

“Come on, you can ride behind me,” she say, and mounts. Cosette pulls Eponine up behind her, and Eponine rests her forehead against Cosette’s shoulder for a moment.

Cosette relaxes. The cool morning air, the thrill of the lark, the clouds of dust under Thistle’s heavy hooves, Eponine’s warm slight frame pressed against her back. She had only returned to Paris, until now. Now, she’s returned home.

“Perhaps I’ll be a knight now, too,” Eponine says, brushing Cosette’s hair aside to whisper in her ear.

“You already are,” Cosette says, and they begin to ride.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a good chance I blazoned Cosette and Valjean's shields all wrong (although Valjean's is taken almost verbatim from the [wikipedia page](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blazon)), but eh, heraldic language is hard.


End file.
